


Non, je ne regrette rien

by ohfreckle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfreckle/pseuds/ohfreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t expect Arthur to get under his skin like this, but approaching him as Cobb isn't one of Eames's smarter ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non, je ne regrette rien

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [i_reversebang](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/) on LJ and inspired by velvet_toucher's [brilliant art](http://velvet-toucher.tumblr.com/post/94327102771/eames-the-forger-implied-cobb-arther-i-made-this).

Eames may be a lot of things, many of them downright abhorrent and he isn’t proud of them, but he’s not a hypocrite and most certainly not a tease.

Arthur on the other hand…

Eames watches him smile back at Ariadne, showing off those lovely dimples just for her. Arthur even rights her scarf, a fringed monstrosity which in Eames humble opinion is an abominable crime against fashion. To add insult to injury, Arthur seems to be completely oblivious to that fact, while he’s given Eames’s favorite salmon shirt the evil eye already twice today.

Maybe he should make start making eyes at Arthur, too. Until now he was sure it isn’t necessary, after all Arthur didn’t shoot him upon his arrival at the warehouse. Considering how their last job in Tashkent went down, Eames had considered the lack of grievous bodily harm the equivalent of a warm welcome with open arms, almost a declaration of love.

It’s been months, but Eames still winces inwardly at the memory.

They were made by their chemist Karimov, only two days into the job. And maybe it was Eames who recommended him, but he still thinks it was Cobb’s fault, because what kind of fool tells the man in charge of the chemicals that his job is to provide the drugs, just the drugs, and shut up. Either way, the wait for a flight out was long and tedious, made marginally more bearable only with the proper amount of brandy. Much to Eames’s and especially Arthur’s displeasure it got even longer after they’d been arrested. Eames was ninety percent sure that it was safe to have a drink or five in the airport lounge, but who can keep up with the trifling details of dry laws these days. To sum up the whole sad affair: Eames ended up with Arthur’s fist in his face instead of having it around his cock as he’d hoped, and for that he can only blame himself.

**

"Eames, I’m impressed."

Arthur looks at Eames with a combination of amazement and that infuriating haughtiness he wears like a second skin, like he hasn’t worked with Eames before and is actually surprised that Eames is capable of contributing more than just his admittedly considerable charms.

"Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur, thank you."

Eames smiles brightly and grits his teeth, turning back to scribble more notes on the whiteboard. It’s either that or he’ll slap the arrogance right off Arthur’s face. Eames is a patient man and despite his appearance not violent by default, but there’s something about Arthur that brings out the worst in him.

Arthur is gorgeous, lissom hips and deadly dimples that make something urgent flare to life in Eames’s gut every time they meet. But he’s also an arrogant prick, a complete and utter wanker, and Eames— sod it, Eames finds him charming not despite but because of it; finds that eternally disgruntled frown and tight bum hot to the point that he wanks himself raw later that night, right after Arthur blows his invitation for drinks off with a terse shake of his head and a pointed look towards the mounds of papers littering their workstations.

It’s times like these that Eames thinks there must be something truly wrong with him.

 

**

Cobb is a tightwad and makes them sleep on dirt cheap lawn chairs. Eames’s back protests vehemently every time he folds himself into one of the vile things, and he vows that next time he won’t bother to save Cobb from whoever chases his sorry arse around the globe, while trying to find a position that will not cripple him for years to come. Cobb is lucky that Eames isn’t overly fond of most his grudges and lets them go quite readily, because while he's only a shadow of the man Eames used to know, there’s still something commanding about him and it would be a sodding shame to lose one of the best in the business.

Eames has dragged one of the recliners to the window, enjoying the last sun rays of the day. For all the world he appears to take a nap, dozing like a big lazy cat. Eames idly wonders if Arthur agrees with the cat part, because cats are gorgeous

creatures, really, but he definitely seems to agree with the lazy part.

"Christ, Eames, would it hurt you to at least pretend that you’re working like the rest of us," Arthur barks at him.

He looks tired, frayed at the seams. Cobb is rubbing off on him. Eames gives him another two months on the run, maybe three, until he ends up as crazy as Cobb himself. Which might very well be the understatement of the year, because Cobb is not only fucking mental for even considering inception, he’s also losing touch with reality.

Eames has seen him, plugged into the PASIV when everybody else has already left. Sometimes Arthur is dreaming with him and one time Eames even saw Ariadne join him. He’d never expect to be invited to whatever it is they’re doing down there, after all he’s a thief, not to be trusted. He certainly wouldn’t trust himself. But he still wonders…

It’s not unusual for professional dreamers to go under for reasons that have nothing to do with the job: reliving precious moments, or simply letting the mind fly. Sex. Eames has done it a few times and quite frankly, sex is pretty much one of the better reasons he can think of for two people to go under together.

Which brings him back to Cobb. And Arthur. Always Arthur.

"Why, Arthur, isn’t hard work the reason we have you here with us? " Eames waves Arthur off with a lazy hand, watching him from beneath his lashes. He can see a muscle tic at Arthur’s jaw even with his very limited sight. "All those late hours you’re putting in."

Right on cue, Arthur’s eyes slide to where Cobb is working at his station, completely oblivious to his surroundings as usual. Arthur looks— hungry, no, that’s not it, he looks _wanting_. Guilty, and something else that Eames can’t quite place.

Something ugly twists in Eames’s stomach. For what has to be the hundredth time since he arrived, Eames wonders if Cobb has what he’s wanted since he first laid eyes on Arthur in his obscenely tailored trousers years ago.

"This isn’t kindergarden, Eames."

Eames rickety chair suddenly rocks like a cockleshell on the highs seas before he finds himself flat on his arse, blinking owlishly.

Arthur smirks down at him and tilts his head toward the PASIV. "Your Browning could do with a bit more work."

Ariadne casts them a worried look from where she’s bent over her models, picking up on the tension that suddenly crackles between them. She’s the only reason that keeps Eames from doing something rash like socking Arthur in his lovely face, because no matter how badly Eames wants to ravish him, Arthur is still an insufferable prick.

"Does he," Eames asks silkily. He gets up gracefully, and doesn’t miss the way Arthur’s eyes trace every shift of his muscles. Eames flexes subtly, just to see Arthur’s eyes widen involuntarily. Attraction isn’t the problem here.

"And what, dear Arthur, would you know about forging?" Eames doesn’t even have to try for the condescension that bleeds into his voice, he’s that bloody annoyed.

The tight press of Arthur’s lips is more than satisfying.

**

Eames comes with a groan, soaking his fist until his bollocks are actually starting to hurt. Already the lovely images of Arthur’s arsehole contracting around his cock are fading; his own face is replaced by Cobb’s somber visage and he misses the perfect fit of Arthur’s hips curving against his palms.

Eames swears and gets up to have a quick wash in the bathroom. He cleans himself up cursorily, not bothering to put on underwear after. He’s still wired and would probably ruin his pants within an hour anyways.

His face looks tired in the brightly lit mirror, and Eames wishes it were just because of the job.

He didn’t expect Arthur to get under his skin like this. Back in that cafe in Mombasa Arthur only seemed like a fond but distant memory.

No matter how much he wracks his brain to pinpoint the moment when his attraction to Arthur became more than just physical, he comes up empty-handed. Arthur has been and still is his favorite fantasy whenever he has a wank, and sometimes even when he’s with someone else.

Eames isn’t sentimental enough to think it’s love, he doesn’t know Arthur— hell, anybody in his life— well enough for that. But it’s more than sex, and Eames is a selfish man who doesn’t like to share the things he considers his, even if they’re technically not _his_. Christ, he doesn’t even make sense inside his own head.

He’d almost forgotten how much of a turn-on Arthur’s sharp wit is, how refreshing his complete lack of bullshit can be.

Arthur doesn’t have to pretend that he’s ruthlessly efficient and competent, unlike a good lot of the people Eames usually works with. They are all hat and no cattle, usually boring Eames to tears within a few days. But not Arthur; he’s fierce, loyal to a fault, or he wouldn’t trail after Cobb and clean up his mess.

Eames appreciates Arthur for who he is, but unlike Cobb he’s kept at arm’s length, unable to unravel the fascinating mystery that is Arthur, despite the physical attraction between them. Arthur has never bothered to hide his appreciation for Eames’s body, which makes the fact that he still —maybe— chooses to fuck Cobb sting all the more.

Eames grimaces at himself in the mirror before he shuts off the light and makes his way back to the rumpled bed. He flops onto the mattress, not bothering to get under the covers. Instead he lifts his hips and palms his cock for the second time that night. Might as well make the most of it, he’s not going to catch any sleep.

**

To most people mirrors are a symbol of truth. They can’t lie, are incapable of deceiving, and so on and so forth.

Nobody knows better than Eames that that’s complete and utter rubbish.

Eames blinks and Browning’s face is staring back at him in the mirror. Needs work, his arse. Browning is _perfect_ , from the bags under his eyes to the little tic of his ring finger when he’s lying.

He quickly shifts from Browning to Fischer, tries on his favorite blonde and after her Saito’s face for good measure, letting him melt off his face, too, until Arthur’s dimples are smiling back him. His ears seem to be especially perky today.

He only realizes what he’s doing— and why— when his features shift again and Cobb is staring at him with serious eyes.

It's a good thing Eames hasn't cared about such paltry matters as morals or decency for a very long time.

**

Eames finds Arthur in bathroom of the hotel suite Ariadne has designed for the third level. He’s checking and double-checking as usual, mentally cross-referencing everything with his colorful spreadsheets and making sure that there’s nothing in the room that would alert Fischer to the fact that somebody is poking around in his head. Eames dimly remembers Arthur mentioning something about a carpet during their meeting today, but he’d been to distracted to give it much thought.

"Dom?"

Arthur seems surprised to see him— to see Cobb, actually, as he should be, because Cobb has been holed up in the back of the warehouse all day, teaching Ariadne the secrets of architecture. They both didn’t even look up from where they were sticking their heads together when Eames plugged himself in, less than two minutes after Arthur. Yusuf had frowned at him, commenting that Arthur wouldn’t be happy to see him down there unscheduled, but if there’s one person with morals that are even more questionable than Eames’s, it’s Yusuf.

This odd remainder of his integrity is probably why Eames feels a slight hint of remorse for why he’s here, but it barely lasts a second. He’s got to know what’s going on between Arthur and Cobb (or Arthur and Ariadne, but that’s a different matter), or he’ll go completely round the bend. Eames is what can only be described as besotted, but if Cobb is what Arthur wants, then Eames will abdicate this unhealthy obsession. He still has some self-respect left.

"I couldn’t wait," Eames smiles, letting his eyes crinkle just the right way. He steps well into Arthur’s personal space, secretly holding his breath. He knows his forge is flawless, but with Arthur one never knows.

Arthur looks at him curiously but completely trusting, self-aware and experienced enough to know that Cobb isn’t a projection of his.

"That bad? What about Ariadne, isn’t she still up there?"

For a moment Eames thinks that he got it all wrong, that there’s nothing more to see here and he can walk away unscathed. He knows enough now, enough to finally make his move and woo Arthur properly—

Arthur’s hands on Eames’s belt are quick and efficient. He strips them both with practiced speed, all nimble fingers and bitten lips, a flush of anticipation coloring his chest and throat in a most fetching shade of pink.

Arthur is gorgeous. Sinewy strength and lean muscles. His arse rounded and full, perfect in a way Eames couldn’t have dreamed up in his wildest fantasies. If there was ever a flicker of a chance that Eames would somehow make it out of this, it’s gone the second Arthur gracefully sinks onto his hands and knees on the floor and spreads his legs.

"Come on," Arthur rasps, arching his back invitingly and showing off the pink clutch of his arsehole. "I have fifteen minutes on the clock and I really need to check the security exits on this level again."

Eames knows, fuck. He knows, because he has seven minutes, plenty of time to get up from his lawn chair, wander off to his station and pretend that he didn’t just violate Arthur in every way possible.

It’s utterly heinous, _Eames_ is utterly heinous, but he’s also achingly hard and dripping and beyond caring.

He drops to his knees between Arthur’s legs and fits himself against his back, his cock slipping into the dip between Arthur’s cheeks. Eames groans, and for a few precious seconds he allows himself to fuck Arthur’s cleft and enjoy the slick slide of his cockhead over Arthur’s hole. He’s mindless with the need to fuck, but he doesn’t miss how Arthur tenses under him, locking his knees as if to brace himself, half-expecting Eames— no, Cobb to simply slam into him.

"Relax, baby," Eames murmurs, swallowing down the _darling_ that’s sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, but he’s still tense. Eames’s mind whirls, hazy with desire. Arthur clearly is expecting a more gentle touch. It shouldn’t surprise Eames that there’s still a man buried under all of Cobb’s pain and madness, that Cobb may actually be a considerate lover and enjoy pleasuring a partner just as much as Eames does.

It’s easy to pinpoint the exact moments Arthur lets go: the first wet swipe over his entrance sends his breath rattling, makes him slide his legs wider for _godyesmore_ , his perfectly manicured nails scraping against the tiles. Eames opens Arthur up slowly with his lips and tongue, although there’s no need for it down here. Arthur unravels under Eames’s hands and mouth beautifully, keening and pushing back greedily against Eames with little broken moans. Eames pets him and licks into him with abandon, eager to coax more of those sounds from him.

It feels so fucking good in a way that Eames does’t even dare to admit. He could just get off from this, from Arthur letting him touch him like this. He ruthlessly ignores the fact that it’s Cobb touch that makes Arthur moan like this, makes him beg for _more, oh god, like that_.

"Dom, get in me," Arthur pants, his voice strained. " _Now!_ "

Eames slides into him balls-deep with a single, hard stroke, pushing the _now_ right out of Arthur on a gasp. Arthur tightens almost painfully around him, pulling him even deeper.

"Arthur…" Eames groans, half warning, half plea. He’s already on the verge of coming, pushing into Arthur hard and fast without conscious thought, but hard and fast seems to be exactly what Arthur needs. He rolls his hips into every thrust, panting for harder and deeper, and Eames gives it to him. He can’t get enough of the sweet, sleek drag of Arthur’s arse every time he pulls out of him, and his orgasm takes him completely by surprise, ripping out of him in hard pulses that leave him utterly devastated.

Arthur comes with a keening sob the moment Eames regains enough of his wit to wrap a shaky hand around his cock, the sound so utterly lewd it makes Eames want to break Cobb, because it’s Cobb who gets to hear this again and again, and Eames—

Eames won’t.

**

"What?" Arthur snaps unkindly. He’s still rubbing his cheek in exactly the same spot Eames slapped him just moments ago while he was under, his brow creased in suspicion.

"Nothing, nothing at all, my dear," Eames smirks. He lets just enough cheek bleed into it to let Arthur know what happened, but a huff is all the reaction it earns him.

Eames surreptitiously watches him out of the corner of his eye. Arthur has been an utter menace these last three days, but his wrath seems evenly distributed between all members of the team. If anything, he’s even been a little more forgiving towards Eames, taking most of Eames’s suggestions into serious consideration.

Not that this new attitude of his eases Eames’s mind even in the slightest. Eames is hyper-alert, expecting Arthur to come screaming in his face, or just shoot him, at any moment. After three sleepless nights he’d actually welcome it.

Arthur looks as tired as Eames feels. Eames knows he hasn’t gone back to his hotel room, choosing to get by on stolen moments of sleep instead, taking minuscule naps whenever even the absurd amounts of caffeine in his system aren’t enough to keep him awake.

The day before Eames found him asleep with his cheek smushed into a stack of credit card statements, the paper already damp where he’d drooled on it a little. The fact that he didn’t wake the instant Eames walked into the warehouse had made a twinge of guilt flare in Eames’s gut. Arthur always takes on more than his fair share of work, but it’s clear that this time he’s running himself into the ground.

Ariadne stops tinkering with her models and gives him a strange look when he volunteers to do the coffee run for the second time today.

"Are you ill or just trying to cop out of work?"

"Must be the flu, then, since I don’t see anybody here who would be capable of stepping in."

Eames likes her, even more so since he’s started to suspect that she’s far more interested in Cobb than Arthur, but she’s adopted far too many of Arthur’s peculiarities in such a short time.

Ariadne looks up at him suspiciously, but scribbles down the same instructions as earlier in the day readily enough.

"Ariadne, the amount of sugar and fat in this makes my arteries curl up in fear." Eames shudders dramatically, but he dutifully carries the slightly sticky list over to Cobb, feeling a vague kind of kinship at Cobb’s muttered _Jesus, that’s revolting_ and his order of simple, black coffee.

Arthur simply adds a +1 to Ariadne’s vile concoction.

The warehouse is silent when Eames comes back. The only sounds are the soft whirring sounds of the PASIV, two lines leading to Cobb and Ariadne, and the faint scratch of Arthur scribbling into his ever-present notebook.

Arthur doesn’t look up when Eames sets his coffee down quietly, but the grateful little smile he shoots Eames when he adds a bag from Arthur’s favorite bakery makes something twist in Eames’s chest.

**

Something is wrong, terrifyingly wrong.

Eames quickly pulls the shutter down, keenly aware of the scene quickly deteriorating behind him. Saito is bleeding out in Arthur’s arms while Cobb completely loses it.

"Don't tell me to calm down, you were meant to check Fischer's background thoroughly. You can't make this kind of mistake. We’re not prepared for this kind of violence—"

Eames watches Arthur’s face crumple while he listens to Cobb’s shouted accusations, his carefully crafted mask slipping long enough to reveal a mixture of hurt, disappointment and fear. Ariadne sees it as well, shooting Eames a worried glance while Cobb simply plows on with his tirade.

"So what happens if one of us dies?" Eames calm voice belies the dread quickly rising inside of him.

"That person doesn't wake up. Their mind drops into limbo."

All color drains from Arthur, and Eames feels his own face mirror the look of shock that’s twisting Arthur’s features. Things aren’t just wrong, they’re completely and utterly fucked.

They carry Saito upstairs with difficulty. Eames isn’t sure what’s worse, Saito’s groans of agony or the self-reproach on Arthur’s face.

"Don’t let him do that to you, Arthur, it’s not your fault," Eames says while Arthur checks Saito’s wound. He keeps his voice low, only for Arthur to hear.

"You made a mistake, yes, we all do that sometimes. But Cobb, he completely fucked us over _on purpose_. He’s a selfish prick who gives a rat’s arse about any of us, and whatever it is you think you owe him… you don’t, you’ve already repaid him many times over."

Arthur looks at him for a long moment before he nods almost imperceptibly. Eames knows him well enough to know that there are still doubts lingering in the back of his head, small voices that insist he should have noticed the impossible, but he hopes it’s enough to help Arthur to keep it together, or they’ll never make it out. The look of startled gratitude on Arthur’s face makes Eames wonder just how often Cobb thanked him for what he’s given up. He has a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t like the answer.

He thought he couldn’t get any angrier, not until Arthur rounds on Cobb and Yusuf, dragging out every sodding detail of Cobb’s hare-brained scheme. It takes all of Eames’s willpower to not point the gun in his hand at Cobb and simply blow his head off.

Or Yusuf’s, for that matter. He needs better friends.

**

Eames remembers again why he hates Los Angeles so much. Finding a taxi at LAX is impossible, makes even inception seem terribly trifling and mundane.

Standing in the glaring midday sun it feels surreal, that despite all odds they achieved the impossible and made it out without any lasting damage to their sanity. Which in Cobb’s case doesn’t really say much, but Eames has to admit he probably wouldn’t stand here and sweat through a three-hundred dollar shirt in a matter of minutes without him.

Something like peace had settled over Cobb’s face the moment he’d passed through baggage claim, his relief so palpable that Eames, despite his less than amicable feelings towards the man, couldn’t help but feel glad for him.

This sudden magnanimity is admittedly largely owed to the many, many zeros that will appear in Eames’s bank account within the hour. He isn’t quite sure yet what to do with that kind of money, but the one thing he does know is that he’ll spend it as far away from dreamsharing as possible. Maybe he’ll steal a painting or two, or simply while away a few weeks in Monaco. Anything that will him take away as far as possible from a PASIV.

And Arthur.

Given enough time and brandy he’ll eventually be able to forget the phantom feel of Arthur’s skin against his fingertips.

"Mr. Eames."

Right on cue, Arthur appears next to him, seemingly out of nowhere. He doesn’t look at Eames, upholding the pretense that they’re simply strangers, but Eames thinks he sees a hint of dimples out of the corners of his eyes.

"What do you think, are you up to fucking me again? Preferably as yourself, in person."

Arthur, always cutting right to the core. That small possibility of a smile is the only thing that doesn’t make Eames bolt at the conversational question, but it still hits him in the gut like a punch.

"How did you know it was me?"

What he did is unforgivable, but Eames is not going to further insult Arthur by denying the obvious.

"Being accosted by my best friend, who is the definition of straight, gave me a pretty good hint."

"That’s complete horseshit and you know it. Try again."

Arthur is able to bullshit his way through meetings with gullible clients well enough, but he’s no match for Eames who cons people for a living. Eames _knows_ his forge was perfect, down to the freckles under Cobb’s eyes and the wedding ring he’s still wearing.

A muscle tics on Arthur’s jaw. Out of the corner of his eyes Eames can see him grind his teeth.

"We’ve only ever fucked in dreams. Dom— it wasn’t love, or even lust." Arthur falters, fumbling for words, but then he takes a deep breath and plows on. "He needed to get off, I was available. And I— god, I can’t even remember when I stayed in one place long enough or felt safe enough to even risk a one-night stand."

Eames stares at him, really looks at him for the first time since they boarded the plane. The wry smile and the flush of embarrassment that starts high on his cheeks and spreads right up to the tips of his ears. Eames has spent enough time in his life on the run to know it’s the loneliest feeling in the world. It never occurred to him that Arthur would feel the same.

"Who else could it be? Dom didn’t fuck for pleasure, not mine and certainly not his own. They way you fucked me—" Arthur turns and finally looks at him, determined and brave, all the things Eames is not right now. "Eames, I’ve never been touched like that in my whole life." He leans in, brushing his lips against Eames’s, so lightly the touch is barely there. "I want you to do it again. I want to feel it— I want to feel _you_ on my skin."

Eames is spared, at least for the moment, to find an answer that won’t make him appear like a right tit by the taxi that pulls up next to them. But after they’ve stored their luggage and Arthur gave the driver an address Eames has never heard of, he still comes up with nothing.

"Don’t think we’re done here. I’ll probably still punch you in the face for what you did to me."

Eames nods thoughtfully. He expects nothing less from Arthur, it’s the least he deserves. Quite frankly, Arthur threatening him with disembowelment makes him feel like the world is finally righting itself again. And also really, really hot.

"Not in here, your upholstery is safe," Arthur placates the driver who’s giving them worried looks, glancing in the rearview mirror nervously. "First, I need him to fuck my brains out."

Strangely enough, this seems to reassure the man. Come to think of it, Los Angeles isn’t actually that bad.

**

Arthur’s flat is airy and spacious. Eames catches a glimpse of dark wood and creamy fabrics, but right now Arthur’s taste in interior design is the last thing on his mind.

Eames isn’t sure what he expected, but not Arthur dragging him along impatiently to what Eames assumes is the bedroom, his short nails digging sharply into Eames’s wrist. Everything is a blur: the both of them tumbling down onto the bed, Arthur straddling Eames’s hips, tugging impatiently at Eames’s shirt.

Eames’s hands come up to curl around Arthur’s hips instinctively. It feels right, familiar, and it’s that feeling of deja-vu that completely throws him and rattles him to the bone.

"Arthur," Eames rasps. "Arthur, _stop_!"

"What?" Arthur looks down him, his head cocked to the side questioningly.

Christ, he’s lovely. Eames takes him in, helplessly aroused despite the sudden apprehension roiling in his gut. Arthur’s eyes are wide, spots of color high in his cheeks.

"Arthur," Eames tries again, while at the same time he’s leaning up to shrug out of his shirt. God, this is fucked, _they_ are completely fucked.

"Arthur, why am I here? You’ve got a million reasons to kick my arse right back to Mombasa."

Arthur tenses above him, his fingers faltering on the tiny buttons of his own shirt. His voice is brittle when he finally answers. "Because I’ve always wanted you, I just couldn’t trust you."

Eames barks out a surprised laugh. "And now you can? Christ, Arthur, and I thought that _I_ was going round the bend."

"You cared." Arthur shrugs, the small gesture terribly vulnerable, so unlike Arthur it makes Eames regret every charitable feeling he ever felt for Cobb.

The flush on Arthur's cheeks deepens and he huffs out a choked little breath, but the look he gives Eames is challenging. "Fuck, this is so embarrassing. Look, if you don’t want—"

"Christ, darling!" Eames surges up and crushes their mouths together. He knows he should give it some time, let Arthur come down from the emotional roller coaster of the last days, but Arthur’s mouth is already parting against his own with a small moan. If there ever was a point of return, it’s long gone.

The glide of Arthur’s tongue against his own is lush and wet. Selfish, stealing Eames’s breath and obliterating his last shred of restraint. Eames cups his face and holds him steady, kisses him deep and filthy until Arthur ruts against his hip, hard and urgent. "What do you want," Eames asks, biting down hard on Arthur’s bottom lip.

"The dream," Arthur pants, his fingers digging into Eames’s shoulders. "I want the dream, everything you did you to me." He lifts his hips and tears at his belt, the hard ridge of his cock straining obscenely against the front of his slacks.

"I want your mouth—" he stops, brushes his fingers over Eames’s lips, pushing until Eames opens up and nips at him. "Lick me open until you can slide right in. I want you deep, and hard— fuck, Eames, it’s been… just make me feel it."

Eames doesn’t need Arthur to spell it out for him again. He gets it, might probably feel a bit insulted if it weren’t for the heat in Arthur’s eyes. He’s aware that their clothes are coming off, but he can’t recall how, too busy taking in all the filth that tumbles out of Arthur’s mouth, filing away every single want Arthur gasps out into the small space between them.

"I can do that," Eames promises, kissing Arthur hard on the mouth. He kneels up, dislocating Arthur from his lap. "I’ll suck you open, get you sopping wet. Fuck my come so deep into you that you’ll taste it."

"Ok, yeah. Jesus, Eames, just do it," Arthur says, scrambling around and wriggling onto his knees without needing to be told. He arches gracefully and slides his legs wide, presenting himself, sluttish and lovely. Eames curls forward with a choked noise, his heart racing with the urgent heat flaring in his belly, pushing his face into the cleft of Arthur’s arse. Arthur shakes beneath him with a small, hurt noise.

"Fuckfuckfuck, Eames, _please,_ " he whines, pushing his forehead into the mattress. Maybe another time Eames will tease him, make him cry with want for Eames’s mouth on him, but right now he’s every bit as desperate as Arthur is.

Eames presses a hard kiss against Arthur’s hole, the little clutch of muscle quivering against his pursed lips. He goes slow but hard, eats Arthur open patiently with deep licks and sucking kisses. Arthur is straining against him, almost shattering apart when Eames nudges him open with his thumb, licking over the stretched rim with broad, sloppy strokes of his tongue.

"Fuck, Eames, so good, so fucking good," Arthur pants wetly into the pillow. He rolls his hips back into the curve of Eames’s hand, body shuddering in pleasure when Eames pulls out and thumbs him open again and again, cries out helplessly when Eames pulls out once more and goes back in with two fingers this time, stretching him wide around his knuckles.

"In me, _fuck_ , get the fuck in me!"

"Greedy," Eames says, pushing his fingers deeper, inin _in_ , just to feel the trembling in Arthur’s thighs again. "Bossy."

"Yeah." Arthur clenches down, squeezing _hard_ around Eames’s fingers, forcing Eames to grit his teeth to bite back a groan.

"Christ, Arthur, all you had to do was ask," he mutters weakly when Arthur does it again, and suddenly he’s absolutely frantic to feel the hot clutch of Arthur’s arse around his cock. Eames pulls out, too quick, too eager, drawing a bereft little sob from Arthur. He slides a soothing hand up Arthur’s slick back, blindly gropes under the pillow with his other hand.

"Nightstand," Arthur says breathlessly, arching into Eames’s touch with a pleased moan.

Eames can’t even remember the last time his hand was shaking so hard while he rolled on a condom. He slicks his cock quickly and curls himself over Arthur, fitting himself tight against Arthur’s back.

"I’m going to turn you inside out," Eames says, so close his lips are sticking to the damp skin of Arthur’s neck. He starts pushing his cock up Arthur’s arse, tries to go slow, but Arthur isn’t having it. He pushes himself back onto Eames’ cock, opening up his wet little hole to pull Eames inside, sucking him in.

Eames shudders into the hot clench of Arthur’s body, feeling his balls draw up tight against his body too soon. He rides into him hard, keeping him full for a long moment before he pulls completely out. Arthur rolls his ass back, his hole fluttering around emptiness.

"Again," Arthur chokes out, and Eames gives it to him, pushing back in slowly, the part of Arthur’s pink flesh around him obscene, fucking beautiful.

He fucks Arthur hard and steady, pushing in to the hilt every time Arthur sobs out a frantic _there, god, right there_ , the clench of Arthur’s body around him a little tighter every time he pulls out. Arthur writhes on his cock, all crumpled moans and greedy pleas, until he comes hard, wet and messy, his spine arching, grinding back into the drag of Eames’s cock over his prostate with a pained sob. Eames fucks him through it, breath coming in burning gasps, his orgasm punched out of him by the slick clench of Arthur’s arse.

He slumps against Arthur’s back, drunk on sex and utterly ruined, almost on the verge of sleep when Arthur struggles under him and pinches his thigh. Hard.

"Sorry, sorry," Eames says, rolling off Arthur’s back with difficulty, still a little dazed with how hard he came. He lands on his back, mustering just enough energy to take care of the condom. Arthur rolls into him, looking deliciously rumpled and so fucked out that Eames is completely blindsided by a warm surge of affection.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Arthur mutters sleepily, his eyes already drooping. "I’m still considering murdering you in your sleep, because I’m still fucking pissed at you."

Eames believes him, but he would feel a lot more threatened if Arthur weren’t squirming next to him, cuddling stealthily against his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is much appreciated! For updates, snippets and whinings on my fics, feel free to add me on [tumblr](http://ohfreckle.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/ohfreckle)


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